The Tycoon's Christmas Proposal. Jackie Braun
“I’m a far better dancer when I’m allowed to take the lead,” Dawson said meaningfully.
“Funny. I feel the same way.”
“Do you mean to tell me you always lead?”
“For the most part. You could say it’s a habit.” Eve’s shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug.
He exhaled slowly and shook his head. He felt irritated, frustrated and, God help him, invigorated. “You’re something else.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not sure I intended that as a compliment.”
“No? Well, that’s all right.” She brought her cheek close to his and he felt her breath caress his ear when she added, “I’m going to take it as one anyway.”
Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® finalist, three-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist, and a past winner of the Rising Star award. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
‘In 1991 I was sure I was getting an engagement ring for Christmas. So were all of my sisters. The first thing they did when Mark and I walked in the door for dinner was grab my left hand and look. But I didn’t get a ring. Mark thought that was too predictable. He proposed to me a few days into the New Year, when I least expected it. I’ve never regretted saying yes.’
—Jackie Braun,
THE TYCOON’S CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL
Dear Reader
Losing someone dear to us is never easy to accept, but grief can be emotionally crippling if we fail to do so. That’s what has happened to my hero in THE TYCOON’S CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL.
Dawson Burke feels responsible for the deaths of his wife and little daughter since he was driving the car at the time of the accident, three years earlier. Since then he has isolated himself from friends and family.
But when he meets personal shopper Eve Hawley, his frozen heart begins to thaw. Life, he soon discovers, has a way of moving on whether we’re ready for it or not, and love is a gift to be treasured.
May all your Christmas wishes come true.
Jackie Braun
THE TYCOON’S CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL
BY
JACKIE BRAUN
For my late father, Walter Braun.
Thanks for sending down a little inspiration
in the wee hours of the morning, Dad.
I miss you.
CHAPTER ONE
DAWSON BURKE was used to people doing things a certain way. His way.
For that reason alone he found the telephone message he’d just retrieved from his voice mail annoying. He flipped his cell phone closed and tapped it against his chin as he stared out the limousine’s windows at the fender-to-fender traffic fighting its way into Denver. What did Eve Hawley mean she would be popping by his office later today to discuss his gift needs? What was there to discuss?
He’d only met his previous personal shopper on a handful of occasions during the past several years. All other dealings with Carole Deming had been accom plished by telephone, fax, e-mail or proxy. Dawson provided a list of names and the necessary compensation. In return, Carole bought, wrapped and saw to it that his gifts were delivered. Mission accomplished. Everyone happy.
Well, he wasn’t happy at the moment.
Eve said she needed to ask him some questions about the intended recipients on his list. Eve said she preferred to meet with her clients face-to-face at least once before setting out to do their shopping. She said it gave her a feel for their tastes and helped her personalize the purchases she made. Eve said…
Dawson scrubbed a hand over his eyes and expelled a ragged breath. This was the third voice mail full of comments and requests that he’d received from the woman. He didn’t have time to deal with this bossy stand-in any more than he cared to make time for Christmas. He couldn’t help but wonder what had possessed Carole, who was recuperating from knee surgery, to suggest this woman as her replacement.
Maybe he should call Carole and see if she could recommend someone else. Someone who didn’t ask unnecessary questions. Someone who simply did his bidding and required no hand-holding.
The limousine pulled to the curb in front of the building that housed the offices of Burke Financial Services. His grandfather, Clive Burke Senior, had started the company, which specialized in managing stock portfolios and corporate pensions. Clive Senior had been gone nearly a dozen years and Dawson’s father, Clive Junior, had retired the spring before last. These days, Dawson was the Burke in charge. And he believed in running a tight ship.
His secretary rose from behind her desk just outside his office the moment the elevator doors slid open on the eleventh floor. Her name was Rachel Stern and her surname suited her perfectly. She was an older woman with steel-gray hair, shoulders as wide as a linebacker’s and a face that would have made a hardened criminal cross to the opposite side of the street before passing her. In the dozen years Rachel had been in his employ Dawson couldn’t recall ever seeing her crack a smile. Stern. That she was, but also efficient and dedicated. He swore sometimes she knew what he wanted before he did.
This morning was no different. She fell into step beside him, prepping him on the day’s itinerary even before he had peeled off his leather gloves and shrugged out of his heavy wool overcoat.
“The people from Darien Cooper called. They got held up in traffic and are running about fifteen minutes late. I’ve put the information packets in the conference room and the Power Point presentation is ready to go.”
“And my speech for the Denver Economic Club this evening?” he asked.
“Typed, fact-checked and on your desk. The television stations are looking for a preview since their reporters won’t be able to get anything back before the late night news. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting a couple of points that might make for good sound bites.”
“Excellent.”
“Oh, and your mother called.”
Dawson gritted his teeth. He reminded himself that the only reason she called him so often was because she loved him and was worried about him. Of course that did nothing to assuage his guilt. “Does she want me to call her back?”
“No, she just asked me to remind you to have your tuxedo dry-cleaned for the ball this weekend. She’s reserved a seat for you at the head table and won’t take no for an answer.”
He bit back a sigh. The annual Tallulah Malone Burke Charity Ball and Auction was the see-and-be-seen-at event for Denver’s social elite. He’d hoped to send a generous check along with his regrets. But the ball was celebrating its silver anniversary this year, and he had little doubt his mother would show up at his door to personally escort him.
The cause was worthy, raising funds for the area’s less fortunate. At one time Dawson had been happy to do his part by suiting up like a penguin, shaking hands and making small talk with Denver’s movers and shakers. But for the past few years he’d made excuses not to attend the event, which always fell the second Saturday after Thanksgiving. It was a bad time of the year for him. The absolute worst, in fact. He’d been grateful that his mother, who was a stickler for appearances, had been willing to let him shirk his responsibilities as a Burke. Apparently his amnesty had run out.
And she claimed